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Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Poisoned

“I don’t think I’m going to do that,” I said defiantly, but
with less bravado than I’d hoped.

“Doesn’t matter,” the Devil replied.

“I didn’t agree to anything,” I said uselessly. The possibility that I may not have a choice
in the matter was starting to dawn on me.

“Well,” Satan replied, crouching next to me and feigning
sympathy, “I know it’s not what you’d call fair, but strictly speaking, I don’t
actually need your permission.” He stood
and picked up my empty glass from the desk.
“All I need you to do is drink a little of my blood.”

So it was poisoned.
Not poison that could kill me, just poison that could turn me into the
Devil, apparently. I growled, straining
against my invisible restraints, bucking uselessly in my hard wooden chair.

“Then I just had to drink a little of yours,” he continued,
“And then wait for the exchange of power.
It shouldn’t take long.” He
glanced at his expensive watch. “And I
do have some last-minute packing to get to, so, if you’ll excuse me.” He headed toward the door through which he’d
entered, opened it, and paused to look back a moment.

“Have a nice eternity,” he said in a low, brutally sarcastic
voice. Then he flashed me that evil,
winsome smile and left, swinging the door closed behind him.